IthacaLit

In the guise of a beggar, Odysseus returned to Ithaca.

Word Wounds in Timefor Zara Potts

A moment that started with the friendlyWave of every day evolved intoTsunami of the sidewalk as you fled.Space exploded so fast your neighbors leftTheir hellos, goodbyes, their sorries, thank yous,Water cooler yarns and lame jokes behind;Buried with each the scraps the other said,Lost between comma and exclamation.What brush hand daubed those seconds in dread?

Who was primum motor of that fell shock?What bone connected to the bones of EarthThat shattered the bones of so many dead?Was there malice in the hand that whirledThe pool, stirred the quicksand under those lives?Or just the mystery plan of A to ZShrouded in dust as the steeple fell?What brush hand daubed those minutes in dread?

Your words stole shape as you waded the city,Skimmed from rubble, broken bodies, and evenThe raw contusion your own corium bled;They claw ferally at the paper to be,Tamed after each aftershock, shriekingAthena gore-sprung from your throbbing head.What wound-words mark your bravery of witness?What brush hand daubed those hours in dread?

Devil's BackboneHoarding blown-up memories ofHaving been taken for a chumpHe's filed in small claims for order:Sawed-off shotgun, hand on the pump.Perfect posture, stoop-superior,Auburn loafers propping up slacks,From his belt-bound, clean, white singlet,Broad arms thrust forth in parallax;His sense of hard, unmetered toilMirrored in his firm left gripAnd static builds like thankless yieldOn his right index fingertip.What narrative behind those eyesScanning local as well as stranger,A menace coats the everyday,Even without immediate danger.And just like that he cuts a formTo children plotting through the street;He's their own woodsman with his axe,Their own ramshackle-watch elite.And passersby, it never fails,Turn towards his perch and nod;There's something in his air exhaledThat tells them he's no sort of fraud.The devil's backbone grows in some,External structure of their spine;His strength of character is fixedAcross his lap, his carabine.He's stitched himself of stark habitWhat was denied him from the jump;You can't mistake his darning pin:Sawed-off shotgun, hand on the pump.

Uche Ogbujiwas born in Calabar, Nigeria, and has lived, among other places, in Egypt, England and the U.S., where he now makes a home near Boulder Colorado with his wife and four children. He's a computer engineer and entrepreneur whose abiding passion is poetry. His poems have appeared in sundry journals, and he is poetry editor atThe Nervous Breakdown. His weblog is Copia, and his personal website is Uche Ogbuji.